


A Lover's Discourse

by pseudanonymous



Category: Tangled (2010)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Character Study, F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 20:44:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2746406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudanonymous/pseuds/pseudanonymous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flynn Rider had always considered himself something of a sack artist, and unlike his literary namesake, he was happy to brag about it, too. However, Eugene Fitzherbert isn't so sure about his position where matters of the heart are concerned. Post-movie. Rated M for language, with a fair bit of implied sexiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anxiety

_The amorous subject, according to one contingency or another, feels swept away by the fear of a danger, an injury, an abandonment, a revulsion - a sentiment he expresses under the name of **anxiety**._

_Roland Barthes, 'A Lover's Discourse'_

Flynn Rider had always considered himself something of a sack artist, and unlike his literary namesake, he was happy to brag about it, too. A consummate technician, he'd seen – and done – it all, leaving a string of satisfied customers in his wake, as well as some considerably less satisfied families of formerly innocent young maidens. It was perhaps to his credit at least that he'd invested some of his early ill-gotten gains in a handful of waxed linen prophylactics; although it never felt quite as good, they'd helped save him from the clap or worse, and at least he'd not had to worry about getting any of his conquests knocked up. But then again, perhaps that was Eugene pushing through the façade. While Flynn simply didn't want any commitments, any ties beyond the moment, poor orphan Eugene remembered the loneliness and stigma of his own childhood – he wouldn't wish that on anyone, even if any child of his would doubtless inherit his super-human good looks.

For the better part of a decade, Eugene had been pushed aside by Flynn, his flashier, and largely fictional, evil twin. True, it hadn't exactly been torture having to go along for the ride when Flynn bedded a buxom farmer's daughter in the back of a hay wain, or an agreeable bar wench after hours. But if he was honest with himself, there was always something missing. Girls would scream his name as they clutched at his back, but that only served to underline the artifice of the situation; it was always Flynn's name on their lips, never his. Flynn could fuck a girl six ways from Sunday, but his heart was never in it. It wasn't that he was an inconsiderate lover; on the contrary, he had quite a reputation for his talents in the bedroom. But fundamentally, it was still all about the physical gratification, an impersonal exchange of animal grunts and bodily fluids. Once it was all over, post-coital clarity of mind would inevitably hit him as swiftly as a guardsman's arrow. When it did, Flynn would be itching to roll off the woman and find some excuse to leave, his baser needs sated. He might enjoy a bit of banter, and a spot of physical congress from time to time, but all his long-term dreams were strictly solo affairs. Every so often though, Eugene would manage to break through Flynn's icy emotional fortress, and wonder what it might be like to actually care for someone, to have them care for you. To fall in love. Had his heart ever leapt at the thought of seeing a girl? Had he ever felt that curious fluttering of the belly he'd heard was supposed to happen? Had he ever even really cared what anyone else might think of him?

She'd so not been his type. A skinny, flat-chested little thing with eyes like saucers, and a frankly creepy amount of hair. He wasn't overly enamoured with her propensity to whack him over the head with kitchen equipment, either. No, Flynn had gone along with her ridiculous plan for one reason and one reason only – to get back that damned crown. He'd tried to shake her off countless times that first morning, but there was no budging the girl; he'd had to admire her tenacity, if nothing else. But gradually, something had changed – all it took was a well-timed near-death experience. No, that wasn't all if he was really honest with himself. It took a lot of pride-swallowing for Flynn to admit it, but she impressed him, with her curiosity and her earnestness and her obvious intelligence. Not only that, but she was the first woman in God knows how long who'd failed to be won over by the smoulder – he had to confess, sometimes he got tired of battles he knew he was going to win.

Rapunzel never bored him. Sure, at times she came across as batshit crazy, but there was a profound honesty to her, a genuine interest in this new world around her – and even in him. She was the first person to call him by his real name in longer than he could remember, and certainly the first to whom he'd volunteered this information since he left the orphanage. This was a glaring weakness, a massive chink in his armour, and all of his own making. How had she succeeded in conning him like this, in tricking him into disclosing his most shameful secret? She'd beaten him at his own game. And yet as he'd sat beside Rapunzel that night, her face flushed in the glow of the fire he'd built, he'd wanted to spill it all, to let her catch a glimpse of the real him behind the carefully crafted exterior. His body had also decided it wanted to do quite a lot more besides, and so he'd had to excuse himself hastily, retreating to the forest to collect more firewood and bang his lecherous head against a tree. Since when did Flynn Rider beat himself up over amorous thoughts about innocent young maidens? By letting Eugene out of the prison at the back of his mind, Flynn had left himself vulnerable to all manner of emotional turmoil, and now Eugene was out there was no shoving him back.

Flynn wasn't entirely dead and buried, though. He had his appetites, and he knew what he liked. Every so often in his former life, he'd come across a woman who stood out for him sexually, who gave as good as she got; there was nothing more dispiriting for him than a girl who just lay back passively to be penetrated. When it was good, he'd sometimes had to come back for more despite himself and his fear of emotional attachments. He'd never worried himself unduly though if things didn't go quite to plan; the world was his oyster, and there was an infinite number of sexual pearls to be found within it.

All that changed, however, with Rapunzel. For once, he wasn't just thinking with his dick; he didn't know a lot about love, but Eugene felt instinctively that her heart was not to be trifled with. He couldn't woo her with words by day, then slink off to bed with another woman by night; his rediscovered scruples wouldn't allow it, and neither, he was sure, would her parents. There was that other complication – one day, she's this crazy chick with magical hair and a frog for her only friend; the next, she's the lost bloody princess. It was a miracle he'd managed to bring her within a mile of the castle without getting a crossbow bolt through his head; it was one greater still that the king and queen had allowed him to remain by their daughter's side.

Nonetheless, Eugene still didn't entirely trust himself – or Rapunzel's judgement. Gorgeous though he was, he was the first man she'd clapped her enormous eyes on. For longer than he cared to admit, doubts lingered in his mind. Was it all just dumb luck, a matter of being in the wrong place at the right time? She'd lived in a tower bereft of human contact for eighteen years; what the hell did she know about love? At least he knew about it in theory, if not so much in practice.

It had all come to a head about five months after they'd returned to the kingdom together. The parties of the early days had been fun, and in the carnival atmosphere he'd felt like a teenager again; drunk on wine and his second chance at life, he'd given in to his growing infatuation with Rapunzel, flirting and teasing and kissing without a care for who might see. However, as the days became weeks, the enormity of the changes facing him began to overwhelm Eugene. Before all this, he'd coveted the very castle in which he now found himself, but he was surprised to find that living the dream left a somewhat bitter taste in his mouth. He'd been Flynn Rider – a wanted criminal, yes, but a notorious and damned successful one. Now what was he? The princess's hanger-on? Her kept man? The Captain of the Guard continued to view Eugene with suspicion and contempt. Rider, Fitzherbert; a mere name change made no difference. And why should it? One act of heroism didn't tip the scale – especially since the whole dying thing, which made Eugene sound that bit more noble, tended to get edited out of the version of events for public consumption as being simply too unbelievable. As did Rapunzel's magic glowing hair, for that matter. At any rate, the abrupt change from a life on the edge to one in the lap of luxury came as a tremendous culture shock. After years dreaming of the easy life, surrounded by wealth, it staggered Eugene to find how ill-suited he actually turned out to be for indolence and inactivity. To begin with he revelled in his new fine clothes, elaborate meals and plush lodgings, but they soon began to pall. Love reading though he might, there were only so many days he could spend cooped up in the library, waiting for Rapunzel to finish whatever lessons or duties were on her increasingly hectic schedule. He seemed to see less and less of her, and what time they did have together was seldom spent alone; after the initial giddy excitement at having their princess back, concern for propriety took over for The Powers That Be. Sometimes Rapunzel and Eugene would manage to slink off together for an afternoon to the forest, and they could just be two young people getting to know one another, not the heir to the throne and her less-than-savoury suitor. They'd hold hands and lie in one another's arms in the grass, talking about everything and nothing. It was at once the most chaste and the most intimate relationship he'd had with a woman.

Five months since everything changed for them both. Six since he'd last had sex. It was probably his longest dry spell since he'd legally come of age. It was becoming harder and harder to keep his hands to himself; he wanted her, so badly. He shouldn't have been laying a finger on Rapunzel, but by degrees their kisses wandered. Together they discovered that sweet spot between her neck and her shoulder that made her gasp so needily, while Rapunzel delighted in how Eugene's breath would catch when her little fingers slipped open the collar of his shirt and pressed against the bare skin of his chest. What a difference half a year makes, he thought, exasperated; six months without sex and the slightest touch from a girl's hand had him helpless. But this wasn't just any girl. Lying alone in bed at night he'd take himself in (his own) hand, extrapolating these snatched sensations into fully-fledged fantasies that soon left him spent and gasping against the sheets. It was ridiculous; Corona's number one player had put himself on the sidelines, saving himself for his virginal princess.

He'd bedded other virgins before, sure; in fact, he was rather good at putting them at ease, if he said so himself. But the idea of somehow spoiling Rapunzel was sickening to Eugene, even though his own wants and desires were driving him to distraction. Personally, he thought the idea of attaching some massive premium to a woman's 'virtue' was a load of bollocks; unfortunately, pretty much everyone else seemed to disagree with him. The only way he could legitimately possess Rapunzel was through marriage, yet looking at the situation through Flynn's eyes, that seemed like an awful lot to go through to get laid. What if they weren't… compatible like that? Oh God. On some level, Eugene simply could not shake the fear that he'd fuck it all up. He'd trick Rapunzel into letting him have his wicked way with her, then turn back into the bastard he'd secretly been all along. She deserved better than his emotional ineptitude.

And so he'd left. He hadn't planned to do it; it just happened one evening. He simply went for a walk after dinner to clear his head, and didn't come back. Eugene had found himself wandering down to the square, then over the bridge to the mainland, and before he really knew what was happening, he was back in the forest. He ended up stopping in a clearing very close to where he and Rapunzel had spent the night, that first day he'd met her. He had nothing but the clothes he stood up in; in that respect, it was as if he'd wiped the slate clean, and he was back in his old life. He sank onto a tree root, and stared at the heavens. And shivered. Five months ago, it had been early summer, and fine weather for sleeping outside; now winter was setting in, and it was bloody cold.

He gathered his coat around himself and thought about what to do next. He couldn't return to the castle; by now it was well past midnight, and while most of its inhabitants would be asleep, all of the entrances would be crawling with guards. That would never have stopped Flynn Rider, but Eugene Fitzherbert had a different kind of reputation to uphold, however tarnished. The Captain would probably have a field day reporting to the King that the princess' beau had been caught pursuing nocturnal interests. No – best sit it out, and try to slip back in once the sun was up and things looked less suspicious. What to do in the meantime? Eugene sighed. His thoughts were no less muddled than they'd been when he left, and now he'd probably just made things worse. He didn't really want to think about the whole situation anymore; it was just making him miserable. Surely the best means of avoiding thinking was to go and get gloriously, ludicrously drunk; he'd got time to kill, after all. At least half a lifetime spent on the run brought some benefits – Eugene knew the area like the back of his hand. It wasn't more than an hour's walk to the Snuggly Duckling; it might not have been his watering hole of choice, but it was the closest, and one of the few in the kingdom that could be relied upon to ignore all official restrictions on alcohol licensing hours.

His decision made, Eugene trudged on.


	2. Behaviour

_A deliberative figure: the amorous subject raises (generally) futile problems of behaviour: faced with this or that alternative, what is to be done? How is he to act?_

_Roland Barthes, 'A Lover's Discourse'_

The crisp night air bit at Eugene's cheeks as he picked his way through the trees. The sky was clear, and a frost was beginning to crunch beneath his boots. Teeth chattering, he dug his hands deep into his pockets, and looped his scarf around his neck once more for good measure. He sighed; it had been a gift from Rapunzel, who had lovingly knitted it for him over the course of the previous week. It was made from a soft lambs' wool yarn that she'd found on sale in the marketplace, and insisted on buying because its blue-green colour reminded Rapunzel of the jacket he'd worn when they first met. She'd bought all three hanks that the stallholder had in stock, and had apparently used the lot; Eugene had been taken aback when he first unfolded Rapunzel's present to find that the scarf was practically twice as long as he was tall. He could picture her impish little face as she confessed she'd got a bit carried away, before mischievously wrapping it around the two of them.

'Now you can't run away from me,' she'd said archly, her chin in the air at an adorable angle.

'Whatever makes you think,' he'd replied, kissing the tip of her nose, 'I'd ever want to do that?'

'Oh, nothing.' It might have been hindsight filling in the blanks, but he thought she'd looked a little anxious all of a sudden. Picking at a speck of lint on his shirt, Rapunzel pressed her head to Eugene's chest, before dropping her arms to circle his waist. Eugene returned her embrace, breathing in the clean yet intoxicating scent of Castile soap and rosewater. He didn't deserve her.

The smell of Rapunzel still clung to the scarf, Eugene realised, as he pressed on through the forest. Perhaps this was some sort of divine justice, punishment for his perfidy; he'd left to try and clarify his thoughts, and instead he could concentrate on nothing but her, her and her smell and what it did to him…

Thank God. Another aroma was starting to push through into his nostrils. Aha… the unmistakeable stench of unwashed bodies and stale beer told Eugene he was nearing his destination. As he trudged closer, he narrowly avoided being brained by the remains of a chair as they sailed through a broken window.

'Ah,' Eugene muttered to himself. 'Some things never change.'

Walking up to the door of the establishment, he pushed, and was greeted by a familiar scene of bacchanalian debauchery. Hookhand, newly returned from his inaugural recital tour, was holding court at the piano, belting out a song that appeared to consist largely of genital euphemisms. Over the fire, the cook was stirring a pot that seemed to contain fewer tentacles than usual, but smelled no less disgusting for it. Eugene glanced at the ceiling; sure enough, there was Shorty, stark bollock naked, sleeping off his stupor in the chandelier.

Picking his way through the throng of sweaty thugs, Eugene made his way towards the bar. He could swear the floor had got even stickier since his previous visit; it was like walking on flypaper. Thank God Rapunzel had agreed to wear shoes the last time they came... He checked himself. No more girl thoughts; not until he'd got a few pints inside him, at least.

Eugene slid onto a bar stool and without looking up, slapped half a crown on the counter. 'Hit me, barkeep: whaddaya got today? Make it the good stuff; or as good as it gets in this...'

'Rider?'

'Huh?' Eugene started, and raised his eyes. _Fuck_ , he thought. It was Vladamir's turn behind the bar tonight, evidently, and the enormous goon was leering over him; as usual he was wearing that ridiculous helmet, but beneath it, he seemed to be... smiling?

'Hey guys!' bellowed Vladamir. 'Rider's here!'

'Er, you know I'm actually going with plain old Eugene Fitzherbert these days...' mumbled the interloper, but it was of little use, as he was soon silenced by a select band of thugs who were slapping him on the back and showering him in spittle as they shouted in his ears. Vladamir dumped a crusty mug in front of Eugene containing God only knew what sort of lethal brew; it smelled dreadful but potent, so he held his nose and swallowed deeply.

'What the hell are you doing in our neck of the woods at this time of night, eh, Rider?' cried Hookhand, who seemed to have abandoned his place on the stage.

'Yeah... does the princess know you're out this late?' asked Big Nose, suspiciously earnest. 'What have you been up to? And why didn't you bring her with you?'

'Yeah, why didn't you bring her with you? We like her.'

'And you don't like me?' Eugene muttered. 'Ouch.'

'Not particularly, no,' countered Hookhand. 'But the princess...'

'Ah, the princess...' sighed Big Nose. 'If I were the princess's boyfriend, you wouldn't catch me in a place like this.'

'But what about your lady love?' asked Eugene. 'Are things still alright with her?'

Big Nose blushed. 'Oh, they're pretty marvellous, thanks for asking. She's actually here right now… hiya, plunder bunny!' The thug waved over to a dark corner, and sent a slobbery air-kiss in the direction of a young woman who waved her mug at him excitedly, spilling most of its contents over Bruiser. Rather than sparking the brawl that Eugene feared, the ruffian instead began sucking the spillage out of his tunic.

Eugene shook his head, willing what he'd just seen to wipe itself from his memory. 'Well if it's alright for you and your girl to be here, why isn't it for me and mine?'

'Oh, you're welcome to roll up here if you really want to,' replied Big Nose. 'It's just we thought that now you're both in the royal bosom, as it were, you might have better things to do…'

'And more elegant places to frequent,' added Gunther.

'Yeah, well…' Eugene took another swig of his drink. 'The royal bosom isn't all it's cracked up to be.'

'Haha! Finally got her top off, did ya?' cackled Shorty, awake now but still swinging from the rafters.

'Shut up, Shorty', cried the rest of the thugs in unison. Eugene let his head crash to the bar in front of him.

'Don't listen to him,' said Tor. 'Rapunzel has lovely bosoms.'

Eugene spluttered, choking on his beer. It was true, so far as he knew. Rapunzel's breasts were small, rather like the rest of her; any larger, and they'd have appeared out of proportion with her delicate frame. He'd seen more than his share of bosoms over the years; as Flynn, he'd generally gone for the obvious choice, the buxom beauty aware of her own attractions and up for a good time. Lately though it was Rapunzel's more modest décolletage that had become the focus of his fantasies. Sometimes she'd sneak up on him in the library after her lessons; she'd clap her little hands over his eyes, then hurl herself, laughing, into his lap. Invariably, Rapunzel would then throw her arms around Eugene's neck, and demand a kiss. Where that kiss fell, however, was subject to change. If the librarian was still on duty, they might have to make do with a quick peck on the cheek. If the coast was clear though, things could get more interesting. He knew Rapunzel loved it when he kissed her neck, especially if he allowed his lips to linger along the turn of her shoulder, or grazed his teeth against her nape. Her grip would tighten around his collar, and Eugene would be treated to the sight of Rapunzel's chest straining against her corset, creamy skin flushed with incipient desire. His hands would splay against the taut, boned silk of her bodice, in a futile attempt to feel the flesh concealed within. She was so warm, so vital in his arms, and he longed to show her more, to let her know how much he wanted her, how much he…

'Hey, Rider!'

Eugene was snapped from his reverie by the cold, sharp point of a hook digging into his shoulder. 'Huh?'

'I said "so have you seen them yet or not?".'

'Seen what?'

'Jesus Christ…' Hookhand dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper before hissing, 'the _bosoms_!'

'What, Rapunzel's?'

'Who else would I be talking about, you idiot: the queen of England?'

Eugene quickly downed the remains of his drink, and beckoned for Vladamir to pour him another. The evening was going from bad to worse. 'A gentleman never tells.'

'Ha! You ain't no gentleman.'

Eugene sighed, and stared into the fireplace. 'I know.'

'Well, I wasn't expecting that.' Hookhand's scowl softened a little as he scanned the pub. 'Oi! Big Nose! Gunther! Get back over here!'

Not known for their concentration spans, the thugs had shifted their attention away from Eugene's unexpected visit, and were currently taking in Fang's latest masterpiece. Squinting, Eugene realised that while he'd not seen these particular puppets before, they were strangely familiar… oh sweet Lord, he thought. On the thug's right hand was a battered kid glove, a simple face rendered on it in large, uneven stitches. Its lower portions were swathed in purple ribbon, but atop the puppet was sewn several feet of yellow yarn. It was chasing its companion on Fang's left hand – the other glove, only this time decorated with green leather scraps, and topped with rather ratty squirrel-fur hair. Forget the bloody wanted posters, thought Eugene – this was probably the least flattering representation he'd seen of himself to date, and the gutter press hadn't exactly held themselves back in the weeks following his and Rapunzel's being thrust into the limelight.

'Take _that_ , Flynn Rider!' squeaked Fang in a grotesque falsetto, as puppet-Rapunzel brandished a cardboard frying pan at Eugene's fleeing alter ego. The thugs cheered and guffawed as the puppeteer mimed Eugene being beaten senseless by his girlfriend. Great. His act of noble self-sacrifice was being dropped from the authorised version, but Rapunzel's pan-wielding proclivities were not.

Eugene concluded that he needed to drink more than previously thought.


	3. Faults

_In various contingencies of everyday life, the subject imagines he has failed the loved being and thereby experiences a sentiment of guilt._

_Roland Barthes, 'A Lover's Discourse'_

'Weight of the world on your shoulders, eh, Rider? I've got just the thing for you.'

Rummaging behind the bar, Vladamir produced an oddly-shaped glass, into which he proceeded to pour a pungent green liquid.

Eugene eyed the glass suspiciously. 'What the hell is that? And why is it that colour?'

'Shut up and wait a minute, will you?' chided Vladamir. 'It ain't ready yet.'

The thug-turned-barman busied himself constructing a bizarre makeshift setup. He carefully balanced a fork over the glass, before placing a lump of sugar on top of the fork. Finally, with a flourish, he poured a second liquid over the sugar, filling the glass with a milky green concoction.

'Voilà!'

Eugene wrinkled his handsome nose in distaste. 'It looks like someone's sneezed.'

'That, my man, is absinthe.'

Returned from the throng, Gunther settled himself next to Eugene, and beckoned Vladamir to furnish him with a glass.

Eugene sniffed his own drink. 'Ugh. It smells like… liquorice?'

'That's better, I think you'll agree,' countered Gunther, 'than most of the other beverages on offer in this establishment.'

Eugene shrugged. The man had a point.

'However, I don't care for Vladamir's… shall we say, ersatz methods of preparation,' continued Gunther. 'He used a fork again, didn't he?'

Eugene nodded. 'What's he supposed to have used?'

'Something like this…' Gunther slipped a hand into a pouch on his belt, and retrieved a small implement that glinted in the lamp light. On closer inspection, Eugene saw that it was a silver spoon, punched through with a great many holes; together, they formed a rather disturbing skull and crossbones design. Gunther helped himself to the requisite fixings, and held his glass aloft.

'Look at that. Finally, a little piece of Bohemia comes to Corona. Drink up, lad; let the Green Fairy take you into her shadowy embrace.'

'Ooookay…' Eugene raised an eyebrow sceptically at the ruffian's melodramatics, but his goal was still to get drunk, through whatever means. He took a deep gulp, and swallowed. It was certainly strong, whatever it was.

'Careful there, Rider,' warned Hookhand, returned to the bar. 'Take it easy with that stuff. You know, I've heard in some places they call absinthe "the drink that makes you want to kill yourself".'

'Comes all the way from Switzerland, it does,' chimed in Big Nose, settling himself beside Eugene.

'How did you guys come by it, then – off the back of a wagon?'

'What kind of lowlifes do you take us for?' bellowed Gunther, slamming his glass onto the bar. 'These spirits were procured through legitimate means.'

Eugene took another swig of his drink. Emboldened by alcohol, he pressed further. 'Oh? How, exactly?'

'Through wit, and skill,' declared Gunther, motioning to Vladamir for a refill.

'I'm still none the wiser.'

'He won it at the tables,' explained Big Nose, who appeared to be sticking to ale instead. 'Gunther's a dab hand at cards, so long as he hasn't had too much of the green stuff already.'

'I assure you, _la fée verte_ only amplifies my natural prowess… in every respect,' countered Gunther.

'Yeah, yeah, whatever,' muttered Hookhand. 'It's not your prowess we're worried about; it's Rider's here.'

For a moment, Eugene feared that he about to expel his drink through his nose in shock.

'Excuse me?'

'You've got women's troubles, ain't yer?'

'I think the phrase you're reaching for is "woman troubles," and what the hell gave you that impression?'

'Your sad sack routine just a minute ago. Everyone knows you're an arrogant little bastard; something must have happened to bruise your ego, or what have you.'

Eugene made an attempt at a derisive scoff.

'What happened?' pressed Hookhand. 'Did she ditch you?'

'What? No!'

'Then what's troubling you?' asked Big Nose. 'You know, sometimes it helps to talk these things through.'

'What things? There's nothing to talk about! Everything's fine.'

'Methinks,' drawled Gunther, 'he doth protest too much.'

'Oh, for Christ's sake, can't a man get drunk in peace?'

'If it's peace you're after, you don't come to the _Duckling_ ,' said Vladamir. 'Especially after midnight.'

'It's not like I had a whole lot of choices,' snapped Eugene, before knocking back the dregs of his glass. 'So shut up, and give me another one of those snot things.'

The thugs glanced at one another before tutting in unison.

Eugene balked. 'What? What are you guys looking at?'

'I told you,' said Hookhand, waving his hook dangerously close to Eugene's face. 'Women's troubles.'

Eugene opened his mouth to protest once more, but was cut off by Big Nose, who barrelled into the discussion.

'We're a bit concerned that you and the princess are going through… a rough patch?'

Eugene snorted. 'That's ridiculous.'

'Oh?' challenged Gunther. 'Then why are you here, instead of in her bed?'

'Because he ain't ever been _in_ her bed, that's why!' cried Hookhand.

Eugene put his head into his hands.

'You know, I've never been that keen on you, Rider,' continued the thug. 'Always more fond of Rapunzel; sweet girl. Never felt she was too good for us, even when it turned out she was the princess. I've got to admit, for a while, we all kind of hoped that those palace types would find her a nice prince to marry, to save her from getting her heart broke by scum like you.'

'But it's too late for all that now. She's soft on you; reckon she has been since you two first rolled up here. She's had a chance to meet the great and the good and that, yet for some reason, she still wants you.'

'We might not know you that well personally, but I think it's fair to say you've got something of a reputation,' added Big Nose, 'as a bit of a womaniser.'

That was, Eugene thought, something of an understatement.

'We were worried about that, right from the start; to be honest, I didn't know if you'd be able to last through the party that first week without running off with some other piece of skirt.'

'I thought perhaps you were in it for the money,' interjected Gunther, holding his green glass up to the light. 'Either planning some heist from the inside, or hoping to marry into royalty before setting up a mistress on the mainland.'

'Great to hear that you guys think so highly of me,' scoffed Eugene.

'Can you blame us?' asked Big Nose. 'You've not exactly led a saintly existence over the years.'

'You know, not everything you hear about me is true,' Eugene countered.

'Oh, we know that,' muttered Hookhand. 'If all the talk about what was in your pants was true, you wouldn't be able to stand up straight.'

Oh? _Oh_ , thought Eugene.

'But that girl… we want her to be happy. And if her idea of happiness is shacking up with you, then I guess we'll just have to come around to it. Only,' Hookhand continued, 'it doesn't seem like _you're_ all that happy with the situation. What's the matter? Have you gone off her?'

'What the…?' cried Eugene. 'Of course not!'

'Has she gone off you?'

'No!' _At least_ , thought Eugene, _I don't think so_ , before cursing himself for allowing the thugs' insinuations get to him.

'Is it her parents?' suggested Big Nose. 'Are they making things difficult for you?'

Eugene thought for a moment, swirling his new drink in his hand. 'Well, no… actually, I'm surprised at how accommodating they've been. Literally: after all, they haven't kicked me out yet.'

'There's still time,' deadpanned Gunther.

'What about marriage?' continued Big Nose. 'What do they think about that?'

Eugene gulped. 'I… I don't know.'

'What does _she_ think about it?'

'I don't know!'

'What about you?' asked Hookhand.

'I…' Eugene led his eyes drift back towards the firelight. He didn't really know what he thought, either. It was all too terrifying, too life-changing. Life-ending? He really had ended his life for this woman, of his own free will, with no expectation of a second chance. When he'd first opened his eyes again, after Rapunzel brought him back, he couldn't believe it; for an instant, he'd thought she was an angel, a vision, some sort of heavenly reward for his self-sacrifice.

He wanted her. Christ, he wanted her, all of her. Just a week or so ago, she'd had to attend some god-awful state function in honour of visiting dignitaries. It was clear he wasn't needed, much less wanted, by the Powers That Be, but Rapunzel had insisted that he be included. The occasion had necessitated new clothes for them both. In Eugene's case, this had been a rather restrained affair, a three-piece suit of dark shot silk, subtle embroidery snaking the buttons of his waistcoat; but for Rapunzel, they'd pulled out all the stops. Too often lately, last-minute fittings had been interfering with their library rendezvous, and Eugene had been getting testy. However, as she descended into the ballroom that evening, the room stilled, and Eugene's breath caught in his throat. She was a vision; the dressmakers had excelled themselves, pouring the princess into a mantua of sunshine gold silk, richly embroidered with all manner of flowers, leaves and butterflies. It was like looking at one of Rapunzel's own paintings, only one that moved and shimmered as she walked. He'd felt a flush of pride knowing that whatever anyone else might think, she was his girl.

She couldn't dance with him, of course, and Eugene spent much of the evening skulking in the shadows as he watched Rapunzel exchange pleasantries and polonaises with the assembled great and good. However, towards the end of the evening he spied the princess as she stepped towards the veranda; she'd say she wanted air, but he knew she needed space.

The black silk of his suit was perfect for his purpose, and Eugene blended into the shadows like a cat stalking its prey. He knew her too well; what she'd do, where she'd go. In a moment, he was behind her, his hands over her eyes.

Rapunzel gasped. 'Wha… Eugene!'

'You got me,' he whispered, dropping his hands to her waist. Rapunzel's hair was twisted and coiled for the occasion, jewelled pins, and her crown, holding it in place. Eugene pressed his nose to Rapunzel's head, and inhaled her intoxicating scent.

'You're so beautiful,' he breathed into her ear. 'I've wanted to touch you all night.'

Rapunzel let out a soft moan as Eugene pressed his lips against the nape of her neck. She twisted in his arms, and turned to face him.

'The same goes for you,' she said with a wry smile, her fingers toying with his cravat. 'Don't you polish up nice, Eugene Fitzherbert?'

'Me? I could make sackcloth and ashes look good,' he murmured with a smirk.

'Modest, too, I see.'

'You know me…' Eugene traced a finger up the tendrils of an embroidered vine as it climbed Rapunzel's bodice. 'This dress… it was worth the wait.'

'You like it? It's more comfortable than I thought it would be, but these shoes…' Rapunzel poked a foot out from beneath her skirts. 'My feet are pretty sore.'

'Hey…' Eugene knelt before her, and removed the offending slipper. 'These dancing shoes… pretty and all, but they might as well be instruments of torture, so I hear.' He stroked her bare foot, before removing her other shoe. 'How about we sit down for a minute? I think you've earned it.'

Rapunzel glanced back to the ballroom, still bathed in candlelight. The orchestra was playing, people were still dancing; they could spare her for a few moments.

'Okay. But where will we go?'

'Oh, don't you worry; just follow me. We won't go far.'

Barefoot, her skirts gathered up, Rapunzel grasped Eugene's hand as she picked her way through the grass, the crisp autumn dew cool on the soles of her feet. It was a clear night, and the stars shimmered in the blackness above.

'Here we go… there.' Eugene led Rapunzel towards a stone bench overlooking the castle gardens. 'Hey, are you cold? Here: take this.' Eugene shed his coat and draped it over Rapunzel's shoulders, along with his arm. He pulled her close, and pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head.

Rapunzel relaxed into the warmth of Eugene's embrace, allowing her hands to rest on his knee. 'This really is a lovely outfit; I like it much better than all those fussy things the others were wearing. I think you were quite the most handsome man in the room.' She idly stroked a finger along the fabric of his breeches.

Eugene swallowed, feeling himself harden within his well-cut trousers.

'And your hair…' continued Rapunzel, tucking an errant lock behind his ear, 'you know I love your hair. Why on earth do the guests wear those silly white wigs? No one in the marketplace ever seems to wear them. I wonder what their hair looks like underneath… or if they even have any…'

Eugene had the perfect quip on the tip of his tongue, but for some reason he couldn't get it out. His throat felt thick, constricted, as Rapunzel's wandering touch began to feather over the sides of his face.

'And this…' she went on, cupping his jaw in her hand, running her thumb over his beard, 'I don't know why more men don't have them. I love how it feels when you kiss me…'

That did it. He couldn't hold back any longer. With a hand at the base of her neck, Eugene pulled Rapunzel towards him, and pressed his lips to hers. It wasn't the smoothest, most elegant kiss ever, but it was certainly passionate. He'd not experienced kisses like this since before he became a man, before courtship became a rehearsed dance of feigned intimacy and empty promises. When she opened her mouth and traced his lower lip with her tongue, Eugene let out an audible sigh; if he could see him now, he thought, Flynn Rider would have been shaking his head in pity and distaste.

'For the love of God… _Rider!'_

It had happened again. It was so easy to get wrapped up in his thoughts when it came to her, even when he was deliberately trying not to. Rather than improving his lot as he'd hoped, alcohol seemed to be making things worse.

'Hey, I'm sorry, guys… just got a bit lost in thought, I guess.'

'You've got to learn to listen,' urged Big Nose. 'Communication is so important in a relationship.'

Vladamir, Hookhand and Gunther nodded sagely at his advice. _As if_ , thought Eugene, any of this lot knows anything about relationships.

'Oh?' he replied. 'Where did you hear that?'

'In this!' with a flourish, Big Nose produced a small, printed pamphlet, and pushed it under Eugene's nose.

Eugene glanced at the battered, yellowed cover. It read:

COURTSHIP and CANDOUR

or

On Matters of the Heart

Being a

Learned Dialogue

Instructional to

All Aspiring Lovers, and

Those Already Afflicted

by

_DR. FREDERICK HORNBLOWER_

Eugene flicked idly through the pamphlet's pages. 'You guys can read?'

'You really don't think much of us, do you?' muttered Big Nose. 'Well, alright, I can't; not exactly. But I'm learning. Gunther here's teaching me.'

Gunther nodded in assent, before turning his attention back to his absinthe, which he seemed to be attempting to set alight. Eugene shook his head.

'Got to improve ourselves for our girls, haven't we?' continued Big Nose. 'You can borrow it, if you like. Might come in useful.'

'Hmm…' Eugene turned the tattered papers over in his hand, before opening a page at random. He read:

'The readership of the volume that you hold in your hand is perhaps somewhat self-selecting; why, indeed, would one uninterested in affairs of the heart embark upon a text with such a title? The nature of the emotion that we now call love has long been a matter of contention; indeed, the ancient Greeks, in their wisdom, were so discerning as to assign four quite separate and distinct varieties. Alas, our modern tongue is less subtle, less nuanced. However, Dr. Johnson has, with his dictionary, reminded us of the need to examine and define the very words we use and all too often take for granted. What, then, is love?

It is instructional, I believe, to return to the aforementioned example of the ancient Greeks. Of course, they are notorious for their proclivity for the Unspeakable Vice, but in other respects, we could do worse than to learn from their example. **Eros** (ἔρως), physical, sensual, passionate love, was to the Greeks but one of their four varieties, and indeed was seen to suffer from a lack of balancing logic; a love founded only upon erotic desire is, I fear, one built upon unsound foundations.

Indeed, for companionship to grow and flourish, **philia** (φιλία) – or an intellectual compatibility – must also be present. So too should **storge** (στοργή) – an affectionate love, as a parent for a child, or a brother for a sister. However, one could argue that the truest, most remarkable love of all is **agape** (ἀγάπη). We find this word used not only by the heathen Greeks themselves, but also in the Holy Book. Corinthians speaks to us of this love, which is patient and kind, but not covetous, boastful nor proud. However, it is perhaps the Gospel of John that defines most clearly the virtues of this most selfless of loves, when it states that "greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends".'

Eugene pondered for a moment, casting his eyes back over Hornblower's rather florid prose. He certainly felt physical desire for Rapunzel: of that there was no question. However, they were also intellectually compatible. They both shared a love of books, and the pursuit of knowledge; they could while away many an hour in discussion of the latest philosophical thought, from Descartes to Wollstonecraft. Indeed, he was thankful that Rapunzel seemed capable of seeing him as more than a pretty face on a tight body; it was nice to be wanted for his brain, for a change.

Of affection, there was no shortage, on either side. He was protective of her, and she of him. As for laying down his life for his friends – been there, done that, he thought. How many could truly say the same?

 _I really am in love_ , thought Eugene. That's what's wrong with me.

Crap.


	4. To Understand

_'Suddenly perceiving the amorous episode as a knot of inexplicable reasons and impaired solutions, the subject exclaims: "I want **to understand** (what is happening to me)!"'_

_Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse_

'So, you've finally figured out you love her, you numbskull,' muttered Hookhand. 'How can that be a bad thing?'

Eugene looked down at his hands, which were rifling restlessly through the pages of the pamphlet. He tried to hold them still, but when he did the treacherous things just kept shaking.

Sucking in a deep breath, he made a concerted effort to compose himself. Eugene felt almost as unsteady as he had when Rapunzel had let slip that she just happened to be the lost princess. This seemed to be becoming something of a habit of late – once again, all of his conceptions had shifted, in the space of a moment. The words were there before him, printed in black and white; but were they a diagnosis, or an indictment?

The word 'love' was a difficult one for him; to be honest, it was one he'd always preferred not to use, let alone think about as an abstract concept. It seemed at once final and insubstantial, a holy grail and a curse.

He'd had his suspicions, to be fair. Eugene cast his mind back over the past few months; it was certainly true that he'd been doing a good bit of weird, out-of-character shit lately, like sticking around and hand-holding and putting other people's needs first – specifically Rapunzel's. The problem was he had no yardstick, no bank of previous experiences against which to compare his feelings, and it was difficult to put the habits of a decade entirely to rest. If Eugene was anxious about the idea of love and commitment, then Flynn would have been positively terrified.

Hands still shaking, Eugene stared into his strange, milky-looking beverage, but his eyes couldn't quite seem to focus. The alcohol was definitely starting to have an effect on him now. He couldn't have been at the Snuggly Duckling for much longer than an hour, and already he'd had what… five, no, six drinks? Eugene couldn't imagine he was going to be feeling too clever come the morning.

'Right, that's it,' bellowed Hookhand, slamming his metal appendage into the counter top for good measure. 'I've had enough of your sad-sack crap for one night, Rider. Pull yourself together and grow a pair, eh?'

'Wha… hey!'

'You might have a fat cock, but you ain't got no balls, I'm tellin' ya.'

' _Excuse me_?' Eugene said, spluttering. He had a sudden feeling he might choke with rage, or possibly embarrassment. 'What the… since when did this turn into a character assassination?'

'Ha! As if you had character to begin with.'

'Hey!… look, come on, guys, please!' Eugene banged his glass against the bar in what he'd hoped was an emphatic gesture; instead he ended up slopping green liquid over his sleeve. 'Yeah, so I've been a shit. I've been around the block a few times. But there's a lot you don't know, you know?'

The thugs glared at him. At least they'd shut up, thought Eugene. Emboldened by drink, he decided to press his advantage.

'I… I've never been in a situation like this before. I don't… Let's just say my previous experience with women has been about breadth rather than depth.'

'Eh?'

'I think what Rider means to say is he has sampled many physical delights, but not yet experienced true emotional intimacy,' explained Gunther.

'Eh?'

'He means he's laid a bunch of chicks but never stuck around 'til morning,' said Vladamir. 'Am I right?'

'Yeah… something like that. Look, I was always careful though – there aren't any little Fitz-Fitzherberts running around or anything.'

'So you're a bastard, eh?'

'I thought the character assassination portion of this cheerful get-together was over, but yeah, like I said, I was a shit.'

'No, I mean really. You know, like, _actually_.' Hookhand fumbled for words, but his expression had softened a little.

'Ah…' Eugene pushed his hands through his hair, and sighed. 'Now we're getting into sob-story territory, and I don't know if I'm really ready to go there in my current state of relative sobriety.'

Hookhand crooked one of his remaining digits at Vladamir behind the bar. 'It's time to crack the rum out.'

'Right you are,' replied Vladamir.

'What? No!' Eugene cried. 'I really don't think this is a good idea, guys. I've still got to get back to the castle at some point between now and tomorrow morning, and it's going to go down really well when I'm absolutely shitfaced when I get there. _If_ I get there.'

'Come on, kid,' soothed Big Nose. 'Might as well go for broke at this point.'

'No, I can't, I…'

Eugene thought for a moment. What did he really have to do tomorrow? Besides the slightly thorny problem of sneaking back into the castle without being seen, there wasn't a great deal on his schedule. Apart from his usual fine-dining and library-haunting and… whatever.

'Oh, go on then,' said Eugene with a sigh. 'You've twisted my arm. Maybe just the one more.'

That's more like it!' bellowed Hookhand, thrusting a new glass into Eugene's hand. 'Get that down you. Drink up, men.'

Eugene sniffed tentatively at the new drink. Had these guys ever heard about not mixing drinks? Rum, ale and that snot drink all on one night couldn't be a good idea. Still, he had set out with the goal of achieving glorious, ludicrous drunkenness, and quantity was probably better than quality where such an intention was concerned. One more wouldn't hurt.

Inevitably however, 'just one more' was followed by another, then another, until Eugene realised he was well on the way to achieving his goal. So, it seemed, were his companions. Copious amounts of alcohol seemed to have the effect of mellowing Hookhand on this particular occasion, and rather than being drawn into the various petty bouts of violence that broke out intermittently across the tavern, he remained hunched over the bar, concentrating intently on his attempts to skewer shelled hazelnuts on the end of his hook and convey them to his mouth. Big Nose remained upright for the most part, making moon eyes across the room at his lady love. Vladamir had handed over his bartending duties to a thug whose name Eugene couldn't quite recall, and was now pounding back the booze as only a seven-and-a-half-foot tall man could, while Gunther seemed to be whittling a rather complicated neo-classical sculpture of a shepherd boy out of a broken chair leg.

'So tell us,' said Hookhand, 'from the beginning. Who you are, where you come from: all that. Maybe then we can work out why it is that you're so screwed up.'

Eugene made a face. The disclosure of personal details was very much not his style, and neither was the admission of shortcomings.

Or maybe that was Flynn talking. Flynn had no need to sort out his personal issues, because in the end, there was no need, no room for anyone else – just him and his island, and all that lovely money. Money and the hopeless dream of isolation, insulation from other people. Other people just hurt you; they just left you. Better be the one to do the leaving.

And that was right where he was now, wasn't it? By behaving like Flynn. He sighed, and held his head in his hands. It wasn't as simple as two separate personalities, not really. Was Eugene any more real than fictitious Flynn?

He clasped his hands together, and took a deep breath. 'Okay, so, to cut a long sob-story short, I have no idea who my parents were, or are, or if they were ever married to each other, or not; I'm not even sure if Eugene Fitzherbert is actually my real name. But I do remember that the orphanage was a wretched, god-forsaken place; or at least, it was back then. I can't recall any of us ever actually getting adopted; half the kids died before reaching ten, and the other half of us were sold into indentured servitude…' Eugene made a dramatic cough, 'I mean apprenticeships'.

'Shit,' murmured Big Nose. 'I'm sorry to hear that, man.'

'So how did you come to be as you are?' asked Gunther.

'Ah, well; see,' continued Eugene, 'I could read and write and that, which was pretty unusual, so I got shipped out to train as a clerk for this wine merchant in town. Business wasn't going too well for him, and he took it out on the underlings… bad food, beatings, you know what I mean. Being at the bottom of the heap, I got the worst of it.' Eugene took a swig of rum. 'So I took off.'

'That sucks,' said Big Nose.

The others nodded and murmured in agreement.

'How old were you then?'

'Well, like a lot of stuff, I'm not that clear on that, either; I don't know if you know this, but the orphanage wasn't exactly big on birthday celebrations.' Eugene pushed his hair out of his eyes once more, and sighed. 'I must have been twelve, maybe thirteen? A little thing. I was a skinny kid.'

'Shit, man.' Hookhand leaned towards Eugene, and patted his shoulder with his remaining fleshly appendage. 'At least I still had my Ma when I was that age. And me Da, come to that.'

'Yeah, well…' Eugene began, staring into his cup. 'I managed. Sort of.'

'How?'

Eugene scoffed half-heartedly, and made a dismissive gesture. 'This and that. Nothing I'm too proud of; not in the beginning, certainly.'

He let his eyes drift toward the fire again. There were a lot things he'd done, had done to him he wasn't proud of. Maybe he'd be ready to talk about it some day, but not now. Not here.

He wished she were here. Rapunzel would understand. She wouldn't judge him for what was in his past, the pain, the ignominy born of a boy's desperation, nor hold it over him later to beat him down.

She wouldn't say anything, not at first; she'd just hold him close, and he could be himself. Whoever that was. Maybe he would cry, weep great sorrowful tears over his lost childhood.

He wanted to. He wanted to now. He could feel the hot, itchy tension in his eyes; any moment now he might start sobbing in front of this bunch of near-strangers.

He didn't really know who he'd be crying for, or for what. For that poor, lost little boy? Or for the bitter, hardened man he'd become – a pretty face concealing the emptiness within.

But he wasn't empty, not any more. Since the day he'd met her, Rapunzel had been working her magic on him, in one way or another. She'd healed his body; was it too much to hope that she might be able to bring his heart back to life, too?

'Are you okay, mate?'

It was Hookhand again. He was stroking his metallic prosthesis in a bizarrely soothing gesture over Eugene's shoulder.

Eugene pressed his lips together firmly, and did his best impression of a smile.

'Yeah. I'm fine.' He gripped his glass in one hand, running the fingers of the other rhythmically around the rim. 'I'll be fine. It's just… I don't understand.' His voice dropped, almost a whisper. 'Jesus, I'm so fucked up. I don't even know who I am, for God's sake. How can Rapunzel? She's just a kid; a kid who's spent her entire life locked in a tower. How can she possibly know what she wants?'

'You know, the way I see it, she knows what she wants better than you do,' said Big Nose.

Eugene sniffed. 'What? Why?'

'Look at it this way. She might not have had the greatest upbringing either, but at least she had this – she had the time to think. A lot. And she's a bright one, too. She's not just had time to think about what she wants – but about what she doesn't want, too.' Big Nose was earnest in his drunkenness, leaning further and further toward Eugene. 'And you know what she wants? She wants the real thing. Actions, not just words.'

'Okay.'

'But you know what's better than actions?'

'Um… no?'

'Actions _and_ words, that's what.'

'Oh.'

'You love her, right?' asked Big Nose.

'I think so.'

'You _think_ so?' shouted Hookhand. 'I thought we'd got past this shit by now!'

'Look, I have no idea what this is like, what happens!' cried Eugene. 'How can I? I just know – I just know…' He paused, trying to order his drink-addled thoughts. 'I just know I don't want to hurt her. I want her to be okay.'

'Is that all?'

 _Christ no._ Eugene closed his eyes and leaned back, allowing himself to indulge his baser imaginings once more. He pictured Rapunzel on his bed, lying before him. No, beside him. They would lie together, their knees just touching. He would brush that stray lock of hair from her eyes, and then he would kiss her, gently at first, then deeply, hungrily. She'd make that throaty little sigh that drove him wild, made him hard.

He'd move his head, press his lips to her throat, her shoulder, push her shift aside until he exposed her breast. Would her nipples be rosy or dusky, or somewhere in between? He was desperate to find out.

In his fantasy, he'd spread his hand out over her chest, his other in her hair as he whispered soft, sweet words in her ear. He'd catch his thumb over the peak of a breast, stroke it to a hardness to match his own. And then he'd suck, lick her until she lay gasping beneath him.

Wouldn't he?

He'd done it a thousand times before, bedded dozens of other women. How could anything possibly go awry?

Because this time he cared, that's how.

Suddenly, he realised. It wasn't just the fear of what he might do to her. It was the fear of what she might do to him.

He loved her, and that gave her the power to destroy him; what was left of him.

What if she finally saw the light, and realised that he was basically a useless sack of shit? What if some guy who was even better-looking turned up, and just happened to be a genuine, blue-blooded prince, with no prior history of criminal activity?

He shook his head. The first part was highly unlikely. The second – effectively inevitable.

The bastard would probably be a thoroughly nice guy, too; perfect for Rapunzel in every way.

The very thought of it made him feel physically sick.

'The thought of another man fucking her fucking kills me.'

He didn't realise he'd actually spoken the words until the thugs started looking at him askance. For a moment, Eugene feared that Hookhand was about to punch his lights out for daring to speak about their beloved princess that way.

But he didn't.

'Thank fucking Christ!' he said instead.

Eugene did a double take. 'What?'

'That's how you should feel,' replied Big Nose. 'It's one of the signs. And you're drunk as a fart, so you're not making it up, or anything.'

'Indeed,' said Gunther. ' _In vino veritas_ , as they say. I imagine the same holds true for rum.'

Eugene stared dumbly. 'So what do I do now?'

'Oh, for God's sake…' Hookhand rolled his eyes. 'What do you think you freakin' do? You go and find her and tell her!'

'But what if she doesn't… feel the same way about me?'

'Faint heart never won fair lady, my boy,' said Gunther. 'He who dares… may win.'

'Yeah.' Eugene nodded. 'Yeah, you're right. I'm going to tell her.' He banged his empty glass purposefully on the counter, then stopped. 'But what am I going to say?'

'What you just said to us,' replied Big Nose. 'Though I'd leave out the swearing.'

'Then what's left to say?' said Eugene, exasperated.

Hookhand grabbed Hornblower's pamphlet from Eugene's hand, slammed it on the table top and as if further emphasis were needed, thumped his hook into the pages.

'Just… tell her. Or show her. Or both. Okay?'

Eugene reached gingerly for the skewered pamphlet, and straightened the binding as best he could. 'Okay. I… think I can probably do that.'

'Good.' Hookhand raised his arms, and rested them on Eugene's shoulders. 'Do right by her, kid. Or I'm going to kill you. Okay?'

Eugene nodded.

'Right then.'

Suddenly, a crash sounded from the middle of the room, followed by a great deal of shrieking and howling. The group hurried over to find the remains of the chandelier scattered across a wide area; evidently Shorty wasn't so light as all that, and had brought the whole thing down with him. Drunken revellers were making attempts to extinguish a number of small fires, seemingly started by candle stubs as they shot from the fixture. A larger chunk of debris had apparently knocked out Attila, and Killer was threatening to make good on his name as he brandished the hunk of wood at Shorty, who swayed unsteadily at the centre of it all, still disturbingly naked.

'Oh, shit,' muttered Hookhand, nudging Eugene. 'Better make yourself scarce, kid.'

'Why?'

'Because there's going to be one hell of a fight, that's why,' replied Vladamir, charging forward into the fray.

'Don't say he didn't warn you,' said Hookhand.

The noise was reaching a ridiculous level. To Eugene's left, Big Nose was dashing to the other side of the tavern, calling after his lady love. Things were escalating quickly, clearly; someone had commandeered Fang's rather nicely-painted theatre and smashed it over Ulf's head, leading the puppeteer to retaliate with a genuine cast-iron frying pan. Those things had really caught on lately.

'Ow… fuck!'

Out of nowhere, an elbow connected with Eugene's face, leaving him clutching in pain at his nose. He tasted hot coppery wetness in his mouth, felt it on his hands. He wasted no more time, and made for the exit as swiftly as his drunken state would allow.

Outside, he staggered to a grass verge and fell to his knees, still clutching his nose. The blow had knocked him sick, and he retched, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the frosty ground.

Fucking great, he thought. Talk about things going from bad to worse. He was miles away from the castle, in the dead of night, drunk as hell, and now he'd probably gone and broken his best facial feature. He felt tentatively at the bridge to see if things seemed seriously awry, but his fingers were so cold from the icy earth that he could feel nothing. He sank back against a tree trunk, and tried to marshall his sodden brain into action.

He hadn't had call to use it since the previous winter, but he had an old hideout not so far from the Snuggly Ducking. He'd go there, he decided, and see how things looked in the morning.

About half an hour later he found what he was after. It was an abandoned cottage, tucked into a charming little glen. As Flynn, he'd sat out a couple of harsh winters here. It was an odd little building, perched precariously beneath the tangled roots of an ancient, monstrous tree. A relic of an earlier era, it now stood all alone in the forest, a gift to the hermit or (former) thief in hiding. It never seemed to attract anyone else; whether on account of its isolation or the fact that it looked seriously structurally unsound, Eugene couldn't say, and didn't much care. Just so long as it was vacant now.

Sure enough, he tried the door and it swung open to reveal a dark, but clearly uninhabited, room. The roof wasn't in great shape; through the blackness of the interior Eugene could clearly see a patch of sky where some of the thatch had gone missing. Still, better a slightly holey roof over his head than none at all, he thought. As his eyes began to get used to the dark, Eugene picked his way over to the corner where he'd left the mattress. Sure enough, his boot touched something soft, and he sat down. The straw beneath the cheap ticking could really do with a change, but it didn't smell like it was actively festering, which was a plus. He gingerly ran a hand over the surface, and didn't encounter anything that felt particularly crusty or gross. Good. Thinking it was probably for the best he couldn't see anything, Eugene lay down, pulled his coat tighter about himself, and settled down to sleep.


End file.
